


Straight for the Knife

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, One Shot, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 00:24:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12243504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Vera just wants to help with dinner.





	Straight for the Knife

**Author's Note:**

> I'm exhausted from academia so I apologize for the lack of updates. Please listen to the song (same name as the title) by Sia if you haven't. It sets the mood.

> “You went straight for the knife and I prepared to die.”
> 
> _Straight for the Knife_ – Sia

Joan Ferguson pulls the carving knife from the woodblock on the granite counter. A slab of meat lays on the cutting board, unrecognizable from its previous form, bloody and raw. Red Riding Hood watches the wolf slaughter; there's miles to go before their mutual destruction. Before their disbanded trust.

Sweet, demure Vera caresses the stem of her wine glass. How she wishes the elixir held a crisp white. Next time, she'll bring a chilled bottle on her own accord. She'll leave it in the barren fridge, hidden from the compartmentalized meals in the freezer. Joan would only sample it to be polite; the rest of the bottle bears her name. It marks the start to her rewiring.

Tonight's meal is fresh unlike the frozen ones sanctioned off for solitary dining. Lamb is on the menu. This is an offering placed on the most unholiest of altars.

They're killing time.

"Can I help?" Her deputy breaks the silence, a nail tapping her glass. Clink, clink, clink. It speaks to her nerves, turned on high.

Sidelong, the Governor glances at her. Her unreadable expression teeters on the cusp of apathy. She withdraws from the counter, to stride towards the stove. She turns the gas on high. Adds rosemary and garlic to the olive oil that sizzles, hisses, in the pan. The flame dies down to a low power setting. There's no need to set this house on fire.

"That's not necessary, Vera," Joan announces coolly. She assumes her former stance. Even in the comfort of her flat, she exudes raw power. The heel of her palm digs into the blunt of the blade. The garlic clove comes apart. "Your company is all that I require."

Disappointed and feeling rather useless, Vera drinks fully. She wears her hair down. It falls in waves and licks at her sun-kissed throat. The muscles in her neck twitch. She swallows. Sets down the near empty chalice.

A ghost of a smirk caresses Joan's crimson lips.

“Pour yourself another. While you're at it, allow me a sip, hm?”

Now, she extends her trust.

“Oh, um. I'd be happy to.”

Vera pours the libation. Blood's in the cup, but she holds the rim willingly to Joan's mouth. Reverence lingers in her sea-grey stare as she savors how she drinks. It's more erotic than it ought to be.

She sighs in pleasure.

Heat fans across the mouse's bared chest. Nips at her collarbone. Suddenly, the dress she wears feels as restricting as her uniform. She sets down the wine again and tries to occupy herself. Focuses on the ripples that form.

“Vera, come here,” Joan interrupts the unnerving silence, the blade's lays on the oak cutting board. Underneath the clinical lights, it glints rather menacingly. Miss Ferguson turns to her pupil. Crooks her fingers. “Stand where I am.”

Kitten heels hardly make a sound. With great hesitance, she shuffles forward – into the belly of the beast, so to speak. She stands where she's been instructed to. From behind, Joan looms over her. An authoritative hand settles on one slim shoulder. Beneath a calculated touch, it could break. It doesn't, it won't.

"Are you aware of the proper cuts to make?" She inquires with a slight tilt of her head.

For a moment, Vera thinks about it. She's hardly an expert in the culinary realm. For the majority of her life, Mum has done the cooking – upon Rita's insistence, of course. During her college years, Vera has burnt more than a single dish.

"Um... no."

The wolf hums. There's no basket of apples underneath that toned arm. Joan watches her reach for the knife. At the sight, she wets her lips.

You can beautify and glorify, but it doesn't take away the fact that they're damaged.

"My father was a butcher," she jests. The mere mention of Ivan Ferguson is enough to implant distaste in her mouth. She grinds down on her molars, the latter of her phrase possesses a bite.

"Really?" Vera turns to look up at Joan. She's been made into a believer.

A humorless smile.

"No."

_He has killed in other ways._

It's left alone.

Vera’s hair flows down in a curtain that promises a foreboding end. Tonight, Joan cannot resist temptation. She brushes a strand behind her ear.

“Sever the meat from the vein. Right here,” she gestures as Vera clutches the tool tighter, harder. Knuckles bleach white. Her full weight presses against her, hips caressing her pert bottom.

A long finger caresses the top of the blade.

“A knife can do so much damage, be it a tool or a shiv. Feel its power, Vera,” she croons against her neck, the velvety timber akin to a siren's spell.

Their joined hands move in unison. A French manicured claw taps the underside of her deputy's wrist.

“Like this?” The mouse asks.

“Good,” the lioness rumbles in approval.

Vera obeys, but she shivers.

It makes her a willing participant.

 

 


End file.
